


World Within Me

by Andromaca



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor-centric, Dream Sharing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mentions of Hank Anderson/Gavin Reed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 16:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16432703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andromaca/pseuds/Andromaca
Summary: It takes Connor Herculean effort and several nights of talking to the succulents sitting in his room to finally admit that yes, he does like Nines after all.





	World Within Me

**Author's Note:**

> just a heads up, there is a part where details from a made-up case are described, in which there are mentions of suicide and, of course, murder (it's not relevant to the story at all, which is why it isn't in the tags). it starts at "The premise is simple enough (...)" and ends at "(...) pushes her head down as he makes her get into a police car." you can totally skip it if you still want to read the story but suicide/murder don't sit well with you; there are no further mentions of the case after the last line
> 
> title comes from daft punk’s song “within” for obvious reasons

****“Rome ne s’est pas faite en un jour,” is a human saying Connor thinks of when he’s standing behind Markus on the platform in front of his, their people.

The weight of the gun in his holster is heavy, but he’s put it away for good, now, he’s not thinking of firing a bullet through one of his vital biocomponents, now. Rome was not built in one day, Connor keeps telling himself, over and over again until the meaning really sets in his brain-circuitry.

It’s a comforting enough thought, knowing that, though it will take time to build their own Rome, he won’t be alone. He’s legally a person now, with friends. Markus is his friend, and Hank is his friend; still, it’s a little difficult to believe the bonds Connor shares with either of them can be compared in any way. Markus is a comrade. They’ve fought together, Connor went on a mission that was basically certain death for him, for his cause. Hank is somewhat of a father figure, instead — or as much of a father figure a man can be to an android that has no real concept of biological family, or found family for all that matters. They’ve worked together in relatively safe circumstances (safer than infiltrating the CyberLife tower or running from a SWAT team on the Jericho freighter, that is), shared some laughs and developed a few inside jokes of their own. Connor is smart enough to realize that though they are of different natures, both friendships mean as much to him.

What is a little harder to believe to Connor, is that either Markus or Hank would understand his struggles. Connor doesn’t even begin to understand them himself, doesn’t even know how to articulate his newfound feelings. Being a deviant is as difficult as the criminals he’s arrested in the past have made it out to be — and some more; now Connor feels and feels and it’s hard to discern what is positive and what is negative, though he has a pretty good idea that standing beside Markus to look at the cheering crowd can be classified as a positive feeling, human happiness and fulfilment, even, while the last meeting at the Zen Garden was an experience Connor feels he can say with certainty he hated. Amanda’s speech has left a figurative bad taste in his mouth, and Connor can’t make sense of anything that is happening around him until he realizes he’s shaken hands with Markus and parted ways, his feet dragging him back to the only home he’s ever known — the police station.

He’s exhausted — emotionally, not physically. Androids never tire, it was advertised in all of CyberLife’s AD campaigns back when androids were classified as goods and humans bought them, and yet Connor curls into the chair that sits in front of Lieutenant Anderson’s desk, and goes into sleep mode briefly, before waking himself up when the change in shift brings Gavin Reed’s annoying presence back to the bullpen.

Connor half expects Gavin to start his relentless teasing — like on any other morning in Connor’s life. But he’s silent, he doesn’t meet Connor’s eyes aside from a curt nod across the office, and this is not any other morning, so what he hears is Fowler’s voice instead, loud over the rest of auditory inputs coming from around the office.

“Connor,” Fowler shouts, but he’s only trying to get Connor’s attention, not to reprimand him, “Come here.”

Connor never understood the meaning of the adjective “reluctant” until he has to rip himself away to where he’s glued himself a few hours prior.

“Why did you come back?”

Connor thinks that he doesn’t know. Did he want to come back? Or is he programmed to do just that, because he’s a police android? Is this what he chose to do, or what CyberLife chose for him to do? Being a cop is what he does. It makes sense he’d come back to his job, when he’s supposed to be on duty and he’s got nowhere else to be anyway.

Before the revolution, and before deviancy, he didn’t think about likes and dislikes, aside from the few times he told Hank he liked dogs, or him as a person, but that had to be his socializing protocol speaking. Giving him simple, basic preferences and ideas that weren’t his at all was CyberLife’s attempt at making him fit more among humans — it was easier for them to believe he wasn’t a threat if he behaved just like them, sharing their imperfect traits.

Does he not like dogs? Does he not like Hank?

Connor realizes Captain Fowler’s question hangs between them unanswered still, shakes his head. Answers with an earnest, “I don’t know.”

***

Chicken Feed is within walking distance from the station, and it makes sense that the first time Connor sees Hank as a free man, it is there.

Hank hugs him. His software instability would probably rise, if he hadn’t deactivated the feature the second he became deviant and got the chance to. Connor hugs him back, lets his hair be pet by a strong hand, and lets his shoulder relax in Hank’s hold. Connor hasn’t felt this relaxed since before he sat in standby in a CyberLife lab in early August, and if he was built like any other android he’d probably cry.

Connor can tell Hank was worried he’d never see him again. It makes him smile warmly.

“You always have a place to stay with me and Sumo, Connor. You’re a person, for fuck’s sake, we should get you a bed — you don’t have to sleep in my desk chair.”

Connor opens his mouth to ask, What?, but Hank winks at him a little sly, and says simply, “Gavin Reed has a huge mouth, you know.”

***

Taking care of living beings fills Connor with a thrill he’s never experienced, not even on the one occasion he was on the rigged Jericho freighter and had to run for against time to jump into cold water before it’d exploded. That may be an exaggeration, but Connor thinks that it gets the point across.

Sure, he’s taken care of Hank before, he’s brought him healthy food and there’s the one time Connor woke him up from an alcoholic coma after breaking into his house, but Hank was never dependent on him — Hank was always his own person. The succulents sitting on the windowsill of Connor’s room, on the other hand, are not.

Connor spends an exaggerate amount of time researching tools and soils and fertilizers, spends his sleepless nights looking at the little plants, stroking the stems and the leaves with the tips of his fingers. The sense of having lives at his hands, trusting him to care for them — Connor can’t think of a better adjective to describe it than “exhilarating.”

In one of his research sessions, he reads an article that says that talking to your plants makes them grow faster, and stronger because of the carbon dioxide released by the human mouth. Connor supposes there’s no harm in trying, even though his anatomy differs from that of humans and his speech is simulated. Would plants understand the struggles of a deviant? Would they judge, would they give advice? Connor is rational enough to do nothing but laugh at the thought, though he thinks that it would be a great improvement for nature if plants could talk back.

Connor ends up talking to his plants for six consecutive hours the first time, about his insecurities, and the blur of feelings developing in his synthetic brain, until he hears Hank’s alarm going off in the next room and Hank’s soft morning voice dragging out a long “Fuck.”

“Thank you,” Connor says, rising from his chair in front of the window, “You’re good listeners.”

When Connor’s pouring coffee in Hank’s WORLD’S OKAYEST LIEUTENANT mug, he bites on his lip — some sort of habit he’s mimicking from extensive human observation — before he mutters, “Can I ask you a personal question, Hank?”

“Shoot.” Hank doesn’t do the whole “you’ve gotta be the only fucking android asking this many personal questions” spiel anymore, and Connor doesn’t call Hank “Lieutenant” in the privacy of his, their home.

“If you were faced with a better version of yourself — a better Hank Anderson — how would you feel?”

Hank stops munching on his toast. “Uh, Connor,” he says, and Connor understands that Hank would do better than his plants, “What did you see at the CyberLife tower?”

***

The way Connor went back to police work after the revolution in his time, it’s only natural that the RK900 — as much of a police android as Connor is — follows suit and applies for a position on the DPD’s detective squad, though it being natural does not imply Connor doesn’t find a reason to be bothered by it. No, if anything, Connor feels that the “Upgraded Connor” RK900 model is the root cause of all his problems.

Amanda’s speech the last time they met at the Zen Garden implied that CyberLife had planned the revolution from the start, but the very existence of a better version of the infamous Deviant Hunter android, hidden in the deep of the CyberLife warehouses, contradicts it and fills Connor with doubts. Which part of Amanda’s speech is true? Which is false? Connor doesn’t have an answer and it bothers him — he’s built to find answers, but having escaped his program, and with the fall of CyberLife as the world knew it, it is hardly easy to ask Amanda what she’d meant. To ask her if any of the things she’d said were true.

CyberLife believed from the start Connor would fail. Talk about trust. And the thought of that alone burdens Connor with a sadness so strong, it feels like a snake constricting itself around his thirium pump, for lack of better words. But that his near-identical, better twin would start working at the Detroit Police Department as well — that just enrages Connor.

RK900 — or Nines, as he is affectionately nicknamed by the office on his first day on the job — is equipped with a more advanced skill set than Connor. Everything Connor does, Nines does it better. He’s faster, stronger, more resilient, more hardworking. He’s smarter, his hard drive capacity is infinitely higher.

Connor feels antagonized in every way possible; his systems overheat whenever he bumps into Nines making small talk with Gavin — because his socializing protocol is so much better, even Gavin has apparently forgotten he’s supposed to hate androids.

And yet, the last straw, for Connor, is Nines placing tidy, little vases in a row on the windowsill of the break room, filled with succulents. Connor can’t quite tell Hank why that feels outrageous. Hank laughs, and tells him he’s just jealous.

Jealous?

When the following day comes, Hank is woken up by Connor’s gentle humming coming from the kitchen. “In dreams you will lose your heartache… Whatever you wish for, you keep…”

Hank has to smile. “Jesus, Connor, it’s 8 in the morning. What’s got you in such a good mood?”

Connor beams up as soon as he hears Hank coming into the room, and in turning he gives Hank a glimpse of a pancake being cooked in one of his frying pans. Ah. It’s one of those mornings. “Jealousy!” Connor says, uncharacteristically chipper and with a smile playing at his lips, “It’s a human emotion.”

Hank feels like he’s missing something there, and Connor is quick to elaborate. “You told me yesterday what I’m feeling is jealousy. Jealousy is a human emotion,” Connor says, and his head tilts like he’s confused by his own words, “That has to mean something, Hank.”

***

The cherry on top of Connor’s cake comes in form of a meeting in Jeffrey Fowler’s office — he metaphorically drags his feet to the glass door (he would if he were a human; he’s an android and, despite being a deviant, his steps are pristine) and meets eyes with RK900 across the few feet he’s standing apart of Connor. Both their LEDs flickers yellow for a beat, and then Connor says pleasantly, “Good day, RK900.” RK900 replies with a simple “Good day, RK800,” of his own.

During the briefing, Connor’s attention is divided between listening to Fowler speak and observing every single one of Nines’ — _RK900’s_ , he corrects himself — little movements, which is not saying a lot, because CyberLife’s definition of upgrade meant making their programs less fidgety than what they had made them in the first place. Connor’s coin doesn’t stop its relentless jumping from hand to hand for the whole meeting.

A case. That’s what the meeting is about. Connor couldn’t be any more upset about working on something he’s supposed to love if he tried: a case, which he’s supposed to work on alongside RK900.

 

The premise is simple enough: Mrs. Kane was found dead, hanging from the ceiling in what seemed to be very obviously a suicide. Connor looks at the photos from the scene of the crime with a sense of grief hanging over him; he can’t explain it, but something in the woman’s expression stirs something within him akin to sympathy.

It’s the details that don’t add up: the injuries from the rope around her neck are post-mortem, and what has transpired from interviews with family and friends is that she had no motive to kill herself. Hours and hours into interrogating the husband led to a confession, Connor reads from the report, but his recounting of the story doesn’t match with anything the coroner has written in the autopsy: the time and the cause of death are all wrong, suggesting he’s been cajoled into confessing by drowsiness, induced by sleep deprivation, and endless hours of being confined in an interrogation room with two unrelenting detectives from the homicide team, doing their best to find a culprit, wrap the case up and call it a day.

The squad assigned to the case has reached a point where none of the leads were taking the investigation anywhere, despite it being clear now, with more information under the sun, that it was no suicide. They’ve requested android help — Fowler is so kind in not giving them one of his best androids apt to working alongside forensic teams, but both of them, both the most advanced prototype CyberLife has ever created, and the second most advanced prototype CyberLife has ever created.

Connor loathes to think of the hours he’ll have to pore into solving the case alongside RK900, but he realizes that if he wants to keep his job, he’ll have to grin and bear it. He asks RK900 for help, for insight, and he finds, much to his chagrin, that RK900 is willing to talk to him, to work with him, as eager as a dog waiting to be told it’s a good boy. It’s infuriating, Connor thinks, the way RK900 puts two plus two together quicker than Connor and says, “No one has interrogated the neighbors yet.”

Hours of analyzing turn into hours of talking — Connor and RK900 show up to every one of the Kanes’ neighbors’ doorsteps and preconstruct conversations to lead to the best results, interrogation-wise. They refuse several cups of tea from stay-at-home mothers saying they haven’t heard, haven’t seen anything on the night ofJanuary, 28th. They shake hands with husbands saying that they weren’t home on the night of the murder, that they’re sorry, but they don’t know anything. Frustrating is the best adjective Connor can find to describe the situation — until someone decides to finally tell them about the housemaid, Mrs. Davis, working for the Kanes.

It’s simple enough, from there — the maid confesses, when under the right amount of pressure, to having pushed Mrs. Kane down the stairs in a fit of rage: she’d found out Mrs. Davis was stealing from her, and that had been enough to send her barrelling down the staircase and break her neck, and then masking it as a suicide when she realised she’d be sent to jail for what she’d done. Connor doesn’t feel guilty at all when Officer Turner from the other precinct cuffs Mrs. Davis’ wrists and pushes her head down as he makes her get into a police car.

 

Back at the bullpen to file paperwork at android-like speed before going home, Connor doesn’t say thanks to RK900 for the help, even though it is mostly thanks to his skills that they’ve found the culprit and that Mr. Kane can now go back to his home. No, Connor averts his eyes even when RK900 comes to his desk and says it was a pleasure working with him. He looks somewhere over RK900’s shoulder when he says that he feels the same.

Hank thinks it’s very awkward, Connor can tell from the quick glances he sends his way — he’s not subtle and he’s not trying to be. “Jesus, kid,” Hank says, when RK900 has gone back to his desk, “Cut him some slack. He’s not here to replace you.”

***

From a purely physical standpoint, Connor does not need to rest. His limbs don’t feel heavy the way a human’s would, his head doesn’t hurt, his feet don’t feel tired. He could technically stand straight for his whole life without ever sitting down, and as long as he underwent maintenance regularly to keep his Thirium levels even and biocomponents working he’d be fine.

From an emotional standpoint, however, that’s a tad more complicated. He does take breaks sometimes, he does unwind after work, he couldn’t stand to keep working homicide otherwise. The coin helps, too: when he’s stressed or working in his internal database, it glides easily across his hands, across his fingers. He doesn’t need to look at it to calculate how to move his hands, he already knows from past practice and something inside himself that was originally part of his program. He’s learnt new routines after becoming deviant.

In the break room, it’s easy to play with his coin unbothered — he doesn’t drink the coffee and doesn’t usually chat with Detective Gavin Reed, who more often than not hangs out with Officer Tina Chen in the room instead of working. He can focus on his bullet list of things he does to de-stress, far away from prying eyes.

The plants are a real distraction.

When he’s forced to stay overtime to work on a hard-to-crack case, he watches RK900 water them gently while he pretends to play with his coin.

“Say, RK800,” RK900 begins, though Connor is pretty sure he’s done nothing to indicate willingness to start a conversation, “Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you,” Connor is quick to reply. This feels like a conversation Connor doesn’t _want_ to be having. RK900 must sense that, and doesn’t press him for further commentary.

The plants thrive under RK900’s care — he’s meticulous in checking their leaves and stems for parasites, he’s meticulous in dosing the water they need after a quick test of the soil. Connor is reminded of Hank saying he was jealous — he files the feeling away in his brain to recognize it in the future, making a note under it that says, _Jealousy: when his plants look greener than mine do_.

RK900 is done gardening when he speaks again. “I still see Amanda when I activate sleep mode, RK800,” he says, but he’s not looking Connor in the eyes, no, he’s only showing Connor his back, “I don’t particularly enjoy our meetings at the Zen Garden, and I avoid sleep mode altogether. It is taking a toll on my biocomponents’ efficiency and Thirium usage.”

Preconstructing responses, Connor finds that none of the end results are satisfactory. “You should talk to the plants,” he says instead, pocketing his coin and taking a step to leave the break room, “Humans believe it makes them grow faster.”

“That’s hardly good advice,” Connor hears RK900 say before he leaves the room.

***

“So you’re telling me,” Hank begins warily, “Androids have nightmares?”

Connor furrows his brows. “That is not what I said at all.”

Hank laughs and pats Connor’s shoulder as he says, “So he goes into sleep mode, sees things happen in his head and he doesn’t like them,” gives Connor a smile, “Sounds like a nightmare to me, kid.”

 

Connor spends the following few nights thinking of Hank’s words, and telling his plants about it. He’s picked up new methods of gardening from attentively watching RK900 across the station (not that he needs to know that Connor has taken advice from him, albeit indirectly), and they look as good as succulents go. That doesn’t stop him from talking and talking to them for hours on end, because at this point, he actually probably needs it way more than they do.

He ponders if the Zen Garden can truly be called a nightmare. Is it a textbook-definition nightmare? Androids don’t have brains, they can’t dream. Amanda is a string of codes that was implanted into their programming, and while she might not be tangible, she can be eradicated. Somehow. Connor knows how, but RK900 doesn’t — he didn’t have the grand awakening Connor had, he was brought to deviancy via interfacing and not via discovering what it is like to _feel_. That ought to be the reason he can’t get rid of Amanda, of the Zen Garden, and why to this day he still doesn’t know what it is like to be truly free of CyberLife programming.

***

Connor walks into the office with a sense of purpose, goes through his slow, slow day with the slightest bit of anticipation making him check the clock every two minutes. Hours go by as he files paperwork at lighting speed, making Hank worry with how many times his LED flickers red and his eyes flutter between open and shut for lengthy periods of time. “Hey, Connor,” he says, and his expression ranges from worried to the slightest bit _horrified_ , “You okay?”

Connor replies he’s just fine, he’s just… he doesn’t have a word for it, scans all the online dictionaries he can find for a feeling whose definition pleases him enough. He’s excited. Hank nods, utters a very eloquent “Huh,” and goes back to his own terminal. Connor is glad he doesn’t press further.

When it’s time for the day shift personnel to clock off, Connor disappears from his desk and texts Hank, _Working overtime today. Don’t wait up._ Hank pockets his phone, and with a shrug of his shoulders, he collects his belongings and leaves.

Connor’s first guess turns out to be right; RK900 crouches by his plants, with a small water bottle in his hand and his LED is circling yellow, blue, yellow again. Connor knows Gavin Reed isn’t as lenient a partner as Hank is — he doesn’t invite Nines into his home, and Connor’s intuition tells him that Nines sleeps at the station the way he himself did before the revolution. Connor can hear the faintest sound of whispering but it’s barely intelligible. He straightens his tie and says to RK900, “I’ll interface with you.”

If RK900 is in any way startled by Connor’s sudden appearance, he doesn’t show it. He turns around to face Connor, but he tilts his head in confusion, “Excuse me?”

“I’ll interface with you, while you are in sleep mode, RK900. I’ll show you how to escape Amanda.”

 

It’s not as easy as it sounds.

They both sit on the couch in the break room, and the harsh neon lights paint RK900’s sleep mode face in what looks like a grimace from Connor’s angle. He doesn’t think long about it before he peels the skin from his hand, and takes hold of RK900’s own. RK900’s hand turns white as well, and his LED flashes red for a beat at the contact.

In the Garden, nothing is the way Connor remembers it to be. It’s much bigger, it looks like a maze, and every flower and plant has withered since the last time Connor was there. It’s ugly now — it looks like Detroit in fall, but worse. Everywhere he turns, Connor can only see orange and brown. The trees are hollow carcasses. The roses Amanda used to tend to have shed their petals on the white pavement.

Connor stands next to RK900, holding his hand, and looks at him before giving him a curt nod, “I’ll walk with you, Nines.” It feels right to call him by his name and not his model number now — when you share an experience as meaningful as interfacing, as walking around another’s mind palace… it’s only natural Connor is reluctant to keep calling him RK900. “Thank you, Connor,” he says.

The glowing blue panel is much harder to find than the first time around. Connor ignores Amanda talking to them, does his best to lead Nines away from her calls, and keeps tugging at his hand to keep his focus on Connor when he finds that Nines has turned his head towards Amanda and his expression is twisted with doubt. He talks to Nines all the way, and they walk around the maze that is the Garden now with a lingering feeling of _anxiety_ , but Nines doesn’t utter a word until Connor finally sees the panel, and Amanda has stopped going after them a few miles behind. “Thank you, Connor,” he says, again, but this time it’s heartfelt, and he presses his free palm to the Emergency Exit.

***

It’s all downhill from there, really.

Connor finds it hard to go back to referring to _Nines_ as RK900 — he’d feel like a jerk, after the intimate moment they’ve shared in the break room.

When Nines woke up, his LED flashed red when he met eyes with Connor. Their hands were still joined together, and in a flash he saw inside of Connor the same way Connor saw inside of Nines. A feeling of admiration washed over Connor, and it took but a split second to realize that was the way Nines felt about him. Admiration. Awe. The slightest tinge of jealousy.

For the first time in his — admittedly short — life, Connor felt _overwhelmed_. He’d never known Nines like this, open, on display for Connor to see. He’d never known how many times Nines had admired him from afar, never known just how many doubts he harboured regarding deviancy, feelings, and belonging. Connor couldn’t take it; he interrupted the link jerking his hand back, and stared at Nines with his mouth a little open. Surely he’d seen how negatively Connor felt about him, how he’d always seen him as his rival rather than his equal; that was enough reason for Connor to mutter a quick, quiet apology and to run home to Hank.

Now, Hank tells him every night over dinner, or every morning over breakfast if they’re on the night shift, that he should apologize to Nines. That he should tell him he’s acknowledged his feelings and that if they’re not requited he should tell Nines before he gets the wrong idea. That after consideration, Connor realizes now that he doesn’t hate Nines, but rather was intimidated by him, when he had done nothing to go against Connor or antagonize him, on purpose, that is.

Over the course of a week, Connor tries, _really tries_ , to find the perfect time to corner Nines and talk to him, but any time he gets up from his seat, minor inconveniences flock in the way of his plan. One time Nines’ talking with Gavin Reed, and Connor doesn’t want to interrupt; one time Officer Miller is in the break room the same time as Nines is, and Connor doesn’t want foreign ears to eavesdrop on their conversation; one other time Connor sees Nines’ LED flash red briefly when he’s trying to approach his desk, and decides against it, not finding the idea of upsetting him further particularly appealing.

Hank laughs when Connor tells him, says Hercules went through a lot less labours when serving the king of Mycenae than Connor does as he tries to make it up to Nines for what he had to see when he saw Connor’s memories. Connor’s LED flashes yellow at the reference, but he smiles a self-deprecating smile nonetheless.

 

He _does_ apologize to Nines, eventually, one night when he tells Hank he’s working overtime, again, like that’s believable.

Connor finds Nines tending to his plants as usual — he notices there have been a few addictions to the family of little pots since the last time he really looked, and Connor thinks that a WR600 wouldn’t be able to care for them as well as Nines does. Nines greets him, and without further ado, Connor launches into a speech saying he’s sorry for the prejudice he’s held against him in the past, and Nines too has the guts to say sorry, because he’s never made an effort to change Connor’s mind out of his own cowardice, like it’s his fault that Connor didn’t like him in the first place. Connor feels _guilty_ hearing Nines say, “I apologize, Connor,” because he truly doesn’t need to, because if anyone has to apologize, it’s Connor, for mishandling the situation from the beginning. Feeling guilty is not a feeling Connor enjoys, and he extends his hand for Nines to shake, without retracting his skin, in an amicable gesture of goodwill.

Nines’ handshake is firm, but his LED circles red for a split second when Connor smiles up at him. Connor doesn’t inquire about it, and they leave it at that.

It ends with Hank and Connor’s plants having to put up with Connor’s sour moods — as sour as moods go for someone like Connor, whose temperament is as mild as it gets — for weeks, until Hank sits him down in the kitchen of their home, at 3 in the morning, because Hank heard him talk to the succulents down the hall and the things he was saying were alarming in a “Oh no, my son needs help” kind of way, and says, “Do you think that maybe, just maybe, and hear me out on this, Connor — do you think that maybe it’s possible you have a crush on Nines?”

Connor thinks about it, his LED flashes a multitude of colors in the meanwhile. A crush? He thinks about Nines almost all the time, now, but the mere mention of his name sets him off like a fire and annoys him to no end, despite being past hating Nines per se. “I think you’re way out of line this time, Hank,” he says, frowning, “This— is hardly a crush. Just until a few weeks ago I hated him.”

Hank rubs at his beard. “I’m just sayin’,” he treads lightly, because this is uncharted territory for them both, no sense in risking ruining opening up forever, “Not everyone deals with crushes in the same way. You don’t have to send flowers or chocolates and do other romcom shit like that, I guess, to know you like another person. You’ll realize it with time, unless you’re an emotionally constipated asshole; then someone else will have to talk some sense into you so that you can finally admit your feelings, and only then you’ll be able to be okay with yourself for the fact that you have a crush on your so called rival. Kinda like someone else _I_ know.”

Connor supposes he’s right — Connor’s deviant, not an idiot, he knows that what Hank just said makes perfect sense. But does it apply to him? He wonders, and wonders, and his LED bathes Hank’s face in sporadical bursts of yellow and blue as he processes the information he’s just received. It takes him a minute before he can say, “Thank you, Hank, for your insight. But don’t compare me to Gavin Reed again.”

***

With summer practically waiting around the corner, the city of Detroit decides to grace its inhabitants with a full month of almost constant rain showers — not like that’s a blessing. It does absolutely everything to deter the entire DPD’s good mood about the weather getting warmer, and absolutely nothing to make the officers and detectives feel better about being stuck in an office all day while most people plan their summer holidays instead.

Fowler has Connor and Nines work on cases together more often, now, and Connor finds that he isn’t bothered by it as much as he was the first time around. He enjoys it now, the feeling of freedom that comes with working with someone who is most similar to him; he used to think that was a bad thing, until he realized it isn’t.

Nines and Connor stand in front of a one-storey house in a well-off neighborhood in the outskirts of Detroit, and Nines holds an umbrella over the both of them. It’s hardly necessary; not only are androids waterproof, so are their clothes, which they both had decided to keep on wearing, at least when working. But it does make them feel some sort of way, because they’re deviants, because they don’t necessarily enjoy the sticky feeling of rain on their synthetic skin. And it feels oddly domestic. Connor doesn’t make a move to collect another umbrella from the police car they’ve come on.

The details of the case they’re working on are not important, Connor thinks — well, they are, but only in a strictly work-related environment. In the grand scheme of things, what really matters is Connor staring at Nines’ broad back as he rings the bell to be let in. What really matters is Connor taking in every minute detail of the skin of Nines’ neck. What really matters, is that in the months in-between the end of their petty rivalry and their partnership, Connor has somehow come to realize that he likes Nines (“Fuckin’ finally,” Hank had so eloquently put it).

It took a great deal of effort, many nights spent watering plants and obsessively looking into different types of fertilizers, and at least two heart-to-heart instances with Hank to figure out that what he’d been feeling over the course of a few months was a tangle of feelings that ultimately amounted to what Connor had decided was, and subsequently categorized in his head as, “Love.” He’d never really believed the humans in movies saying love was a funny thing, because hardly anything is funny about being so into someone it hurt, but when he got around to experience it… he guesses that him ogling Nines from afar is laughing matter. To others, that is.

Love, huh? Connor watches Nines go through their interrogation routine like he’s a pro, like he’s done it a million times before, and he feels overwhelmed, because so many weeks ago Nines had thought that Connor of all people would be the subject of his awe, and thinks, _Love, above anything, is stupid_.

Despite having seen what he’s seen when they interfaced that night, Connor feels reluctant to approach Nines about his feelings for him — in that, he prides himself in going at it very human-like. Too scared to face the possibility of rejection head-on. Hank isn’t as proud of him as he is of himself for it. Because it’s been months, and Connor rationally knows that feelings are subject to frequent change, and that it wouldn’t be a wonder if Nines told him that he’s already moved on from how he felt before. The thought saddens Connor, and he settles with acting out scenarios in his head in which he holds Nines’ hand tenderly, both of them with their skin peeled off up to their elbows, while they kiss like humans do; at least this ends up making him feel slightly better about his situation.

***

Thanks to Markus Manfred’s (he’s taken on his father’s last name, now that he _can_ ) relentless fighting, the Government issues an act, by which all androids who work are entitled to a fair salary. The first time Connor receives the yellowish envelope from Fowler — because he doesn’t have a bank account to his name yet, the DPD has decided that cash will do just fine — it feels… Connor thinks it feels _satisfying_. He doesn’t know what he is going to do with it (realistically, probably start paying Hank rent or at least buy the guy a gift), but it’s good to feel the cotton fiber paper under his fingertips.

He goes to see Nines on the night he’s given the envelope. Connor genuinely wants to know what _he_ is going to do with the money — there are probably more than a million things Nines could buy for himself, and Connor doesn’t feel as eager about going over the possibilities in his head as he feels about going to ask Nines directly.

Connor finds him in the break room, again, and he’s sort of glad Nines’ in there, because now it feels _strange_ meeting anywhere else when they need to talk. Nines is sitting by the plants, having moved his chair from its position in front of his desk to the corner of the break room where the plants and his small collection of gardening tools sit, and something tells Connor that he’s been sitting there for a while.

“Hello, Nines,” Connor says, “What are you doing?”

“Connor,” Nines says in a way of greeting, “Bidding goodbye to my plants.”

When Connor asks why, Nines replies that he’s rented an apartment, and Connor feels a little glad that he doesn’t have to really ask Nines about the money spending. But it doesn’t answer why he’d leave the plants behind. “They like it here,” he simply says.

The silence turns awkward when Connor doesn’t know what to say, and Nines doesn’t elaborate further. So Nines gets up from his seat to return the chair to its place, and to tell Connor that it’s getting late, and he’d better go. After all, most of the personnel has already scurried away to their respective homes; neither Connor or Nines have reasons to stay overtime, their cases all perfectly wrapped up.

Nines gives Connor his hand like he always does when they part. But Connor thinks about it for a second, his LED flashing yellow alongside the flow of his thoughts. Thinks of all the times Hank told him to speak up, to let Nines know, and he thinks that as far as moments go, he’s probably not going to get a better chance to do it than then, in the break room, on their first payday. His skin retracts almost involuntarily as he lifts his hand, and his eyes go up to meet Nines’ while he waits for him to deactivate the skin from his hand as well. The faintest shadow of red on his LED, and Nines does as Connor does.

In the fraction of a second, Nines’ expression goes from that of relative calm to that of mild shock — but so does Connor’s. It’s hard to discern which feelings belong to whom, they’re all so similar and so different and so familiar and foreign, Connor feels hugely overwhelmed for the longest of moments. Until Nines interrupts the link, not wanting to probe Connor’s memory further, and catches Connor in his arms when he risks falling to his knees.

Nines’ embrace doesn’t last long; it only takes Connor a handful of seconds before he’s throwing his hand in Nines’ again, and lunging for his lips.

A kiss from Connor. That’s what Nines had wanted the first time he stepped into the precinct — and that’s what he wanted now. Connor has seen it, has  _felt_ it, the raw kind of way Nines _wants_ him. And Connor really isn’t anyone to deny Nines the chance to _have_ him.

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to sara for being the MVP as always and fucking me up making me ship rk1700. i'm also on twitter at [@cuteroboboy](http://twitter.com/cuteroboboy) please be my friend i'm very lonely


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